


Special Delivery

by phae



Series: All the Captain's Commandos [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Assassins & Hitmen, Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 09:17:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16365092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phae/pseuds/phae
Summary: Hydra's made their move, and they no doubt think they've got Steve by the balls this time, but Steve's got an ace up his sleeve and he's not afraid to use it.





	Special Delivery

Steve stares down unblinkingly at Bucky’s prosthetic, nestled as it is in a box of blood-red roses. There’re wires poking out of the severed shoulder joint, and frankly, it’s a miracle they haven’t sent the whole thing up in flames because Steve can still make out the faint hum of the modified power source chugging along inside without a hiccup. Browning chips of blood spot the chrome finish, the arterial spray emblazoned all over like a fucked up Pollock painting. Sloppy smears of yet more blood blot out the white star etched into the bicep. The fingers of the hand have been twisted up and crushed into position so that it’s giving a perpetual middle finger to the world–-Rumlow’s handiwork, no doubt, classy ass shithead that he is.

 

Steve’s fingers twitch with the instinct to ball his hands into fists, but he’s not about to give Hydra the satisfaction of getting to him, nevermind that they’re not even here to see it.

 

Gathered around him in his office, everyone is frozen, waiting for his reaction. The tension’s so thick the room’s practically buzzing with it.

 

It’s broken without warning by an unfamiliar voice. “Well, this is awkward.”

 

The ripple of reaction kicks everything back into focus as everyone around him draws a weapon or falls back to cover, all eyes moving from Bucky’s limp arm to the woman who’s just broken in through the damned _third floor window._

 

“I come in peace,” she says drolly, tossing her head so that bright red curls fall back over her shoulder. She raises her hands and her fingers slowly spread down the middle in a Vulcan salute. “Take me to your leader.”

 

Off to Steve’s left, Clint groans audibly. “Aw, for futz sake, Nat.”

 

“Well?” she says, turning on Clint immediately with a sardonically raised eyebrow and not a care in the word for the many guns trained on her every movement. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

 

“I mean, I would, but who the hell knows what name you’re going by this week?” Clint quips back without a pause, but there’s a particular bite behind it that Steve’s not sure how to parce. Mostly, it just clues him in to the fact that there’s a whole other conversation taking place right over his head, but he’s got far bigger fish to fry at the moment.

 

There’s a prolonged silence between the two that builds for uncomfortably tense seconds before the woman acknowledges Clint with a succinct, “Point.” And then she turns to Steve, and the smile on her face would almost be pleasant if her eyes weren’t concealing a sheer penchant for violence. “I’m Natasha Romanoff. I was here to help, and you are very, very welcome.”

 

Clint scoffs in his corner, but Romanoff doesn’t turn back to him, apparently finished with whatever riddles they were speaking in.

 

“What, was I meant to leave you to track down where they’d whisked your lover boy off to on your own?” she asks, her tone carrying a definite edge and her smile still fixed innocuously on Steve. “We both know that’s hardly your area of expertise. It’s not even your area of mediocrity.”

 

This, at least, is something Steve is well familiar with: the instinctive and borderline-fond insults that people who are much too close for their own good trade in. It’s something of a habit these days, between Bucky and himself. Steve flicks his gaze over to Clint and inquires, “Your myriad and elusive _connections_?”

 

Clint shrugs, and on an ordinary day, it would come across as nonchalant and insubordinate, but today isn’t an ordinary day, and Clint’s strung too tight for any of his usual masks to fit quite right, so the move instead reads as something stilted and clumsy to Steve.

 

At the back of the room, Steve catches sight of Scott shakily raising his hand in the air from the corner of his eye. “Uh, am I the only one about to piss myself over the fact the Black Widow just waltzed right into the middle of our stronghold?”

 

“If she wanted to kill us, I daresay we’d be dead by now,” Peggy replies, brisk and no-nonsense as ever, which is why Steve adores her so much. “It appears she’s here to offer her services, which we’d be fool to turn down in our current position.”

 

The last bit seems a bit pointed, in Steve’s opinion, considering he was already planning to accept any help Romanoff might be willing to offer. Breathing in deep through his nose in an effort to tamp down his temper, Steve asks, “Do you know where they took him?”

 

Instead of replying, Romanoff slowly reaches into her jacket and pulls a bundle of photos from an inner pocket. She tosses them onto Steve’s desk rather than walking forward to set them there, which seems wise given that half the room is still on red alert with weapons drawn.

 

The pictures are all of a warehouse down by the docks. Judging by the buildings in the background, it’s somewhere along the edges of what Steve considers the Commandos territory. Romanoff’s captured plenty of angles of the outer face of the building, as well as some shots on the inside with various goons stationed near the doors. One shot, of a room well off the ground floor but with a large multi-paned window to let in light, depicts a slumped figure bound to a chair, a tangled mess of long brown hair the only thing close to identifiable from the back view.

 

Steve has to swallow down the building burn of bile in the back of his throat before he can continue. “He’s alive?”

 

“As of thirty minutes ago,” Romanoff confirms with an easy shrug. “The guy working him over likes to play with his food first, I guess.”

 

Off to the side, Steve very clearly hears Luis mumbling, “Dude, Clint’s friend is seriously creepy, right? Like, it’s not just me?” Someone hits him, judging by the _thump_ closely followed by Luis letting out a wheezing groan.

 

Steve ignores the byplay, though, his eyes roving over the pictures in front of him while his brain scrambles to cobble together a feasible course of action.

 

Hydra’s expecting him to blow his gasket here, to storm their stronghold without thinking it through because he doesn’t know where Bucky is, to raise Hell to get Bucky back. And, fine. He can do that. He _wants_ to do that, to lay them all to waste and burn anything that’s left standing. But it’s obviously a trap, so he’ll need all hands on deck if he wants to go in the front like easy bait, so that everyone else can close ranks and take them out from all other sides.

 

But that would leave Bucky out in the wind, vulnerable to whatever those sick fucks at the warehouse are doing to him, and that’s not acceptable.

 

“So how we playing this, Cap?” Sam mutters eventually to break the tense quiet that’s settled throughout the office, leaning back against the far wall with his arms crossed over his chest, leg just barely jumping from where his heel is kicking back into the baseboard. “We all swoop down on the warehouse? Level it, salt the earth in its wake?”

 

Except that Steve doesn’t just have the Commandos at his beck and call. He’s got Clint now, as well, and Hydra’s not expecting Clint, who conveniently comes with his own backup. They’ve got no clue that Clint’s willing to go just as far to get Bucky back as Steve is, and that’s something he can use here. He can go for Hydra’s throat and rescue Bucky all at the same time; two birds, one very deadly stone.

 

Steve slams his fist down, and the desk rattles worryingly. “No,” he bites out. “Where’s the shipment we were looking to bust?”

 

Silently, Sam steps forward and lays out a map on the desktop, pointing to two circled spots, barely six blocks apart. Steve leans over the map as he deliberates, fingers curling too tight around the edges of the desk.

 

Finally, he looks back up and starts issuing orders: “Sam, you’ll lead the raid on their trafficking site. Scott and Luis, go gather the usual suspects and join him. Make sure Sharon’s on scene as soon as their lackeys have been dealt with to head up the rescue of the girls. We’ve got no clue how long they’ve been there or how bad they’ve had it.”

 

Sam tips his head as he flicks Steve a salute, already backing out of the room with Scott and Luid scurrying closely behind. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

 

“Peggy, Dum-Dum, Jim, round up the others and have them meet us uptown with everything they can get their hands on. I’m done beating around the bush with these assholes; we’re taking out their headquarters.”

 

“Uh, Cap?” Morita pipes up from the back where he’s been holding up the far wall this whole time, his gun unholstered but loose in his grip. “You sure about that? That place is a fortress. What exactly are we supposed to do? I mean, it’s not like we can just knock on the front door.”

 

Steve smirks back at him, and he’s well aware it’s not a friendly look in the least. “Why not? That’s exactly what we’re gonna do.”

 

Dum-dum siddles past Morita and guffaws loudly as he slaps him on the back. “Quit your worrying, Morita! It’ll be just like that time in Chinatown!”

 

Sighing as he pushes off the wall and follows Dum-dum from the room, Morita mutters, “Chinatown was a fucking shitshow.”

 

“And I’m sure this’ll be no different!”

 

Peggy stops at Steve’s side on her way out, placing her hand on his arm and leveling him with a knowing look. Steve just looks back at her, begging her with his eyes to trust him on this one, trust that his judgement’s not clouded this time, and he’s thinking clearly about all the possible outcomes.

 

Her lips twitch down in a frown, but she nods none the less before departing as well, leaving Steve with just the three still left.

 

“Bruce, can you call in Tony? Buck’s arm is gonna need some serious work. And make a list of what you’ll need to treat any probable wounds–”

 

“How many times–” Bruce grumbles from his corner, shoulders hunched. “I’m not that kind of doctor!”

 

“I know, Doc,” Steve replies with what little patience he’s got remaining. “But you’re the best we’ve got right now.”

 

His frame slumps before he straightens. “Next recruit needs to have a MD behind their name, you got that?” He walks out with his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

 

Which just leaves two--“Clint, I assume your shadow’s going wherever you go?”

 

Romanov answers for him, stepping back so she’s shoulder-to-shoulder with Clint. “You assume right.”

 

“You’re both going to the warehouse, then,” Steve declares. He stares down Clint as he continues, “First priority is getting Buck out of there, but once he’s safe? No one gets out of there alive. We’re taking our stand and making it clear. No more pussy-footing around this bullshit. Think you can handle that?”

 

Clint’s eyes are steely like Steve’s never seen them before. If he’d first showed up on their doorstep looking like this? Steve would have gunned him down on the spot. But Clint’s not an enemy; he’s very firmly on their side, on _Bucky’s_ side, and Steve knows in that moment that he can trust Clint to lay his life down before he lets anything more happen to Bucky, the same as Steve would.

 

“Captain,” Clint replies lowly, his voice gone hard and cold. “it would be my genuine pleasure.”

**Author's Note:**

> Natasha is a giant dweeb for sci-fi shows, but her attempts to cheer Clint up by making stark references always come at the worst of times...


End file.
